


Old Haunts

by wheel_of_fish



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blindfolds, F/M, Light Bondage, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Stockings, Tight Spaces, baseless smut, happily healthily married AU, unapologetically smug ALW phantom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/pseuds/wheel_of_fish
Summary: Christine longs for escape from the evening's rehearsal. A familiar figure pulls her into the walls of the opera house and offers her just that. Threeshot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is some baseless, self-indulgent smut that I wrote way too quickly in order to bust through a bad case of writer's block. It has no plot. I'm sorry.
> 
> Though I usually prefer Erik with a side of angst, I was inspired to write him here as nothing short of smoldering and unapologetically smug.

By the time M. Reyer called for a fifteen-minute break, the dress rehearsal for  _Faust_ had devolved into three costume mishaps, two broken set-pieces, a brief fistfight, and an incident with a goat. Christine fought back tears as she walked offstage, having confused her blocking not one but three times amid the escalating tension.

In the hall just offstage, she leaned back against the wall and let out a shuddering sigh. Her fitted breeches and tunic afforded her such flexibility, and not for the first time she was grateful for this particular costume.

A soft creak nearby startled her upright. She had not even deduced its source when an icy hand clamped over her mouth, and she was yanked backward into a space where she was certain there had been a wall moments before. She watched, wide-eyed, as a panel shut itself before her, closing off all view of the hall save for a few small peepholes. She was swallowed by darkness.

"Not a sound, my angel," murmured a voice behind her. It was enticingly supple, yet it wound around her with the predatory focus of a hungry vulture. As if on cue, a pair of male chorus members sauntered by, discussing plans for the evening's libations.

Christine nodded her assent, and the hand on her mouth slid away. Her frantic heartbeat began to slow. There was just enough light for her to take stock of the shallow passageway and her captor therein, but the long and lean frame pressed to her back negated that need.  _Oh_ , she knew that body. There was a searing warmth low in her abdomen.

She reached back, fingers stretching until they found the cool porcelain of the white half-mask that she'd known would be there. That same cold hand, wiry but strong, caught hers and pulled it down to a pair of dry, misshapen lips. "My Christine," the voice said reverently, lips rasping against the backs of her knuckles. "Please forgive the intrusion, but it seemed as though you could use some...relief, as it were."

"What sort of—"

"Shhh." He lowered her hand, pressing kisses along her neck, humming his approval as she tilted her head to one side. "I beg you to grant me this one distraction, or my mounting rage at this insufferable rehearsal will invoke the return of the Opera Ghost."

A tuft of ballerinas flitted past, and she waited until they were out of earshot to whisper, "You promised, Erik!"

"And I have remained faithful to our agreement these last ten months, have I not?" His lips alighted on the soft dip between her neck and shoulder, while his hands roamed her waist. "What would one more note to our esteemed managers be, in the grand scheme of things?" With one swift tug, he untucked the hems of both tunic and chemise from her breeches. Her breath hitched as his callused fingers found her skin.

"Of course, I am still incensed that you were relegated to the role of Siebel," he said, "but this ensemble of yours makes you deliciously accessible." Fingers trailed along the edge of her corset, around to the laces at the back. He began to tug at the strings.

"Not the corset," she breathed. "I must return to rehearsal soon."

" _Damnation_."

Erik abandoned his efforts, instead reaching up the front of her shirt to find the soft swells of flesh at the top of her bodice. There he lingered with gently kneading hands, until hunger drove them to slide beneath her undergarments, into the thin gap between chemise and skin. The fabric stretched just enough to accommodate him. She gasped as his hands found the full weight of her breasts, and the circular motions of his thumbs sent her back arching into him.

"You know that I am always happy to bide my time in this particular region," he murmured after a few exhilarating moments, "but in the interest of time..." He slowly released her chest, plunging a hand down the front of her trousers instead. His other arm encircled her waist, no doubt to account for the weakening of her knees as his fingers slid into that place of burning need. She emitted a whimpering cry.

"You must keep quiet, sweetling," he murmured into the side of her neck. One finger slid deeper, stroking with confident precision.

She melted against his chest, eyelids fluttering shut. Her breaths came fast and heavy as she asked, "Why should you get to talk, then?"

"Ah, but am I not a paradigm of control when it comes to voice? You, on the other hand..." Tauntingly, as if to test her, he skimmed his lips down her throat and caught the skin of her shoulder between his teeth. She writhed at the tender lash of tongue that followed.

"Please," she whispered, arching into him again.

"Ah, but my dear"—the words were breathy and hot on her skin—"that mouth of yours is proving troublesome."

She smiled shyly, though he could not see it. "I could put it to better use."

He whipped her around to face him. His mask glowed in the dim lighting, and though she could not see his eyes, she knew they were searing into her. "Show me," he said, huskier now.

Christine knotted her fingers behind his neck and wasted no time in kissing him: softly at first, but with increasing urgency. Her lips and tongue mapped the rough-hewn ridges of his mouth, moistening them, plying them with loving pressure. His broad hand, warmer now, cupped the back of her head.

With an impish bite of lip, she ducked out of his embrace and sank to her knees.

Erik's breathing was labored as she fumbled with his belt and then the placket of his trousers. The fabric was soft, its contents firm and warm and straining. She slipped a hand inside. She teased with fingertips first, a firm hold second. With her free hand, she tugged the trousers off his hips to release him from those woollen confines.

She met him with a steadying grip and a slow swirl of tongue. He inhaled sharply. Her lips closed around him and she took him in, at which point he positively shuddered. "Chris _tine_ ," he groaned. His palm settled on the crown of her head, fingers rooting themselves in the hair that she had tied back for her role. She began to move.

She was distantly aware of receding footsteps, of passing voices, of Erik's haggard breaths: a muffled backdrop to the steady rise and fall of her head, to the concerted effort of lips and tongue and wrist. She moved with a confidence that far surpassed the few times she'd done this previously, finding that she very much enjoyed the picture of him at her mercy.

She drank him down and lavished him with attention, content to do so until he cut her off with an urgent utterance of her name.

He tugged her to her feet and spun her to face the wall once more, yanking the breeches down past her knees. One hand pinned her wrists to the wall above her head, while the other gripped a thigh to pull her legs apart.

A warm hardness teased her from behind, and it entered swiftly. She bit back a cry as he rocked against her. Both of his hands joined hers now, fingers entwining overhead, holding fast in their euphoria. It still made her dizzy, the feel of his solid form beating against her back, taut with wiry muscle. Every movement was calculated, assertive—but one look, one word, one movement from her, and he would defer without question.

Christine had no desire to exercise that power now. She gave herself over to the movement of his hips, her own body forced to move in tandem.

Somehow, M. Reyer's voice cut through all the heat and sweat and pleasure. " _Where_  is Mlle. Daaé?"

Her eyes flew open. "Erik!"

"You are indisposed, my dear. He can wait." An arm wound tightly around her midsection, anchoring her as the former Opera Ghost drove into her even harder. It unleashed a series of sharp gasps from her lungs and almost made her forget the production entirely.

His long fingers snaked around her bare thigh and between her legs, again coaxing easy pleasure that drove her mad with want. "Unless you would surrender to me now, hmm?" The strokes of his middle finger quickened alongside the snapping of his hips.

She nodded fervently, already at the mercy of the nerve-endings that sparked and crackled wherever he touched her. Pleasure, rough and heady, assaulted her from all angles, until it became too much and she was overtaken. He covered her mouth to muffle her quiet cries as she bucked against him.

He had slowed in the wake of her spasming, but now he clenched her hips and redoubled his efforts. She fell forward, palms flat against the wall, mouth falling open with the steady punctuation of his movements. Suddenly, he stiffened; a few jerky movements later, and he fell still. His breaths fell hot and heavy onto the back of her neck.

The pair were still joined when Erik wrapped his arms around her. There they remained, unmoving, while she focused on the slowing cadence of her breathing, the thick ferocity of her love for him.

He pressed his malformed lips to the tender pulse point below her jaw. "What do you think, my dearest wife? Will this carry us through the remainder of the night?"

She reached back and again found the edges of his mask, this time slipping her fingers beneath it to stroke the gnarled and beautiful flesh there. He sighed and leaned into her touch.

"Yes," she whispered. "And if not, perhaps an unfortunate lighting failure will send us home early." She bent to refasten her breeches, and as the wall panel slid open she placed a lingering kiss on his lips. "Do make it look like an accident, though."

With renewed confidence and a spring in her step, Christine Daaé stepped out into the hall to reprise her hard-earned role as Siebel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Behold, the smuttiest smut I have ever smutted thus far. Apparently this is now my fallback when I've got writer's block and can't manage plot. Based on a prompt from gracianasi on Tumblr: "a kiss to give up control."
> 
> This might end up being a threeshot. Who can say? :)

 

Married life suited them  _quite_  well.

Yes, at six months they were likely still in the honeymoon stage, but so far there seemed no limit to the eagerness of their lovemaking, only a mounting adventurousness, and Erik would be damned if he did not revel in every second of it.

It had shocked him how fervently they had fallen into each other, how easily Christine had capitulated to—and eventually reciprocated—his touch. But she was still very much a blushing bride in other respects: namely, when it came to his gaze. Most of their trysts were under the cover of darkness, tangled in the bedclothes, reliant on blind groping. It was ridiculous, really, the anxiety she displayed over the most beautiful body he had ever seen (yes all right, the  _only_  body he had ever seen, in that much detail—but his point stood), when he himself had a face more hideous than death.

Tonight, he decided, he would break down those barriers. Or at least he would try, and the success of his efforts would perhaps determine whether he slept alone on the sofa that night.

With the aid of the evening's wine and in the interest of time, he had already shed his tailcoat and vest by the time he stalked into the bedroom. She was in her nightgown, having just let down her hair. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.

He held her as he often did when he wanted to possess her completely: arm snug around her waist, fingers twined through her hair, mouth descending to capture hers. With lips and tongue, he smothered her tiny chirp of surprise.

She was backing up to the bed even as he lifted the lacy nightdress over her head. And she was already covering her chest with one arm when she broke away from his mouth to turn and reach for the lamp on the nightstand.

"No, Christine." He caught her gently from behind, an arm curling around her waist, drawing her in. He lowered his mouth to her ear. "I understand your reservations, but you remain the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld, and I wish..." He moistened his lips. What was it he wanted, exactly? "I wish you would permit me to worship you. Unencumbered."

He slid his free hand across her ribs, which dipped beneath his palm as she sucked in a breath, and he began to kiss the delicate skin of her neck. "Do you trust me?" he murmured. He moved his hand higher for another pass, catching his thumb on the tip of her breast to elicit another sharp breath.

Her head lolled back against his shoulder. "Yes," she whispered.

He guided her to the bed, where she lay on her back and he yanked off his black tie. Her eyes widened in understanding as he raised her arms over her head, but she let him bind her wrists without protest.

He tested the knot and made sure she was situated comfortably. "And now, my dear?" he asked, lowering his face to hers. "Do you trust me still?"

Her eyes were still wide but bright as she lifted her head to kiss him, and in that kiss he felt the weight of her conviction. What had he ever done to earn it?

"I will need to close my eyes," she asked, pulling back. "I do not think I can bear to watch."

He withheld an impish grin and fetched a silk scarf from the wardrobe instead. He slid it over her eyes and knotted it at the back of her head. "And now, Christine?"

She tilted her chin back and flexed her arms, as though testing the strength of the bonds. "Always," she whispered.

With the blindfold eclipsing part of her face, her plump lips stood out lovelier than ever. He knew what those lips were capable of. He dragged the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, and she caught the digit in her mouth, capturing it with a tight seal. Her tongue brushed against his skin.

"Minx," he breathed. Bound and blindfolded, she still had him at her mercy—and  _oh_ , he loved her for it. He pulled his hand away and leaned in to kiss her, softly, before he withdrew.

His eyes feasted on the sight of her while he unbuttoned his shirt at the bedside. He was already almost painfully aroused. Which morsel should he indulge in first?

The makeshift bindings stretched and exposed the milky-white undersides of her arms. Her breasts and stomach rose and fell with movements quick and sharp, in tune to her shallow breaths. Otherwise, she was quiet as he stripped down to his trousers. It was perhaps the one time he had ever removed his mask without hesitation: she could not see him, not tonight, and only he could determine what she did and did not touch.

He approached her slowly. A wayward lock of hair had spilled over the blindfold and onto her cheek, and it was here he touched first, finger ghosting across her face to tuck away the strand. Next he traced the contours of her jaw, the long line of her neck, the dip into her shoulder. His pace was glacial. She bit at her bottom lip, causing his own mouth to quirk back at her growing impatience.

He put a hand on each shoulder to continue downward, his palms traveling the lengths of her arms to arrive at the waistband of her drawers. There, he hooked a finger into either side and pulled.

Off came the last of her garments, tossed unceremoniously to the bedroom floor; his eyes would not drift from her naked form for anything. He still held the leg he had lifted to aid him, and he set it against his bare chest so he could run his hands over her ankle, her shapely calf, her lower thigh. He kissed each toe individually before he set her leg back down on the mattress, a display that made her smile in the way that always liquefied his insides.

He placed a broad palm on her stomach, which contracted at his touch. He dipped a finger into her navel, and then he trailed his fingertips up the centerline of her body: over the abdomen, between the breasts, up to her sternum. His hand curled around her throat and hovered there: not pressing, or squeezing, but simply taking stock of the space she filled.

He could map every curve of her body, every crease and every birthmark, with eyes and hands and lips, and he would still never be sated by her. But at least tonight, for perhaps the first time, he would witness every second of her pleasure.

With long and limber forefingers, he traced the outlines of her breasts. They yielded to him, with their warm and supple softness, at the lightest touch, the most subtle graze of knuckle. Her breaths grew more weighted.

He bent and took a breast into his mouth, his hand now kneading the other one, and she gasped at the gentle suction. Here he lingered, tasting her, reveling in her femininity. Then, on impulse, he closed his teeth around the hardened tip and gently tugged. The lusty cry that stole from her lungs set his veins on fire.

Mouth and tongue remained fervently in place as his hand slid between her thighs. Here she was already eager for him, and his now-seasoned fingers slid into place to caress her. She writhed beneath him, her tiny gasps and mewls a symphony to his ears. He could not hold back a sly smile.

When he sensed she was close, he released her breast from his lips. "Shall I keep going?" he asked. "Or would you prefer that I stop?" He watched her face crinkle as she deliberated: she preferred, he knew, to withhold her pleasure until he could share it with her.

"Stop," she decided, and he withdrew his hand. "Erik?"

"Yes, my love?"

Her reply was so meek that he was forced to lean in closer and ask, "Come again?"

She drew a quivering breath. "I want to taste you," she said, her voice as small as if she were making a confession. And perhaps it was a confession to her, his Christine, whose closeted desires he knew he had yet to unlock in full.

"You are certain?" His heart pounded with anticipation. It was an act she had performed before—but never quite like this.

She nodded. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, perhaps unknowingly, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He stepped out of his trousers and drew flush against the mattress, stomach somersaulting as she turned her head to face him.

He cupped the back of her head to anchor her, and he guided himself to her mouth. Her lips parted, gliding over his skin like hot silk, taking him in. He let out a quiet moan at the first flick of her tongue.

The angle was awkward, her movements slow and shallow. Without even meaning to, he began to rock his hips in time with her bobbing head, angling deeper, watching her for signs of discomfort. But she moved eagerly, and he fell under the spell of her wickedly beautiful mouth as she worked her magic. The hypnotic glide of her lips was the only thing keeping him from closing his eyes to the hot and heady friction that built in his loins.

"Christine," he whispered, voice choked by desire. His muse, his lover, his confidant, his  _wife_. "Chris _tine_."

It was with great reluctance that he pulled away from her mouth: a necessary act of self-preservation. She whimpered at the loss of him. Ah, but that would not do! Swiftly, he knelt at the bedside and swung her around so her legs straddled his shoulders. He hooked his arms beneath them in order to grab her hips, and then he lowered his head, yanked her forward, and descended on her with open mouth.

She gasped and arched her back, just as he had known she would. He smiled into that tender flesh, even as he swirled his tongue around it. He pulled its center into his mouth, and she cried out, bucking against the mattress. He only gripped her thighs harder and lashed his tongue with renewed force.

"Erik," she gasped. He hummed in approval, mouth vibrating against her, and she cried out even louder. Still, she did not stop him. Perhaps, this time, she would cave.

But when he felt her bound hands twisting into his hair,  _he_  was the one to stop.

"Tsk tsk," he admonished, guiding her arms back to their resting place above her head. "That is not how this game is played, Madame le Fantôme. Must I punish you for insubordination?"

Without awaiting an answer, he flipped her over onto her stomach, delivering a light slap to flank at the sound of her delighted squeak. He positioned her on knees and elbows, her hands still bound beneath her, and he pushed himself in. The sounds that collectively escaped their lips were almost inhuman.

His hands found the swell of her hips and held fast, pulling her to him even as his own hips snapped back and forth. His eyes followed the contour of her spine, the curve of her rear. His ears were attuned to her moans, which had increased in both volume and frequency. Briefly, he planted his hands on the bed in order to lean forward and taste the salt of her skin. She was an assault on his senses, and he would gladly surrender to her soon.

But first: her. Always her, above all else. For even if he could never touch her again, his heart would beat only, solidly, tirelessly for her.

He caressed her as he slowed his cadence: shoulders, back, legs, anywhere he could reach. Finally, he withdrew and maneuvered her onto her back once more. He positioned himself between her thighs, and he pulled off the blindfold.

She stared up into his ravaged face, eyes hazy with lust and something else, something he had miraculously begun to recognize as love. Her hands were still bound so she waited, her face an entreaty. He leaned forward to kiss her.

Her lips felt more solid now, somehow. They slanted against his, warm and wet, pulling him into a tangle of heat. His mouth was still on hers as he entered her, and when she locked her legs around him he utterly lost himself.

He pressed into her, again and again, at the angle he knew she liked best. Above them, her knuckles had gone white where they clenched the bedsheets. The bed shook with his efforts; a sheen of perspiration coated his skin. It was all he could do not to explode. But her mouth had fallen open in quiet anticipation and he knew that expression, so that when her legs tensed against his hips and urged him to move faster, move harder, he obliged.

He waited until she shattered beneath him, and then he let himself go. Every nerve ending in his body fired off, with great swells of euphoria flooding in to douse the flames. He and Christine clung to each other as they convulsed, and it was some time before her legs fell from his sides and he forced himself off of her.

They exchanged tender kisses as they lay side by side. "There now," he murmured, untying her wrists. "That was not so terrible, was it?"

"No, I suppose not." She gave him a drowsy smile, stroking his bare arm. "Which means you will certainly not object when it is  _my_  turn to make such demands, hmm?"

She settled in to sleep, leaving him to wonder—with newfound anxiety—precisely how Christine Daaé might exact her revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a project for Kinktober, but that obviously did not happen. Better late than never, I guess? As is always the case with this collection, I intend to run away and bury my head in the sand immediately after publishing.

Christine did not wait long for her retribution.

All through the next day, she buzzed with the memory of Erik's unrelenting adoration, expressed with fingers and fire, with tongue and teeth and lips. Her surrender of control had been strangely exhilarating, and even as Carlotta's mood swings cast a chill upon the day's rehearsal, Christine's cheeks burned with the intensity of her wanton impulses.

She could not stop wondering what might it feel like to wield that same power.

It was rather unladylike, was it not, to entertain such desires? Then again, her husband had not once expressed misgivings about her wishes, nor the ways in which she acted on them.

No doubt he suspected something was amiss. He had caught her staring during dinner: more specifically, at the column of exposed skin above his collar, and the taut muscle beneath it that flexed as he spoke. He had teased her about it—her mind, always wandering!—and moved on, sipping at his drink, drawing attention to the dusky-pink lips that had also occupied her thoughts that day. She hmmed and ahhed and nodded her head in response to his chatter with almost no regard for substance.

By the time night fell, she had quite made up her mind: she wanted the same unfettered access to him that he had been granted of her the night before.

After washing up, she changed into her dressing gown: the one made of sheer white lace, with peony-pink trim at the waist and cuffs. A more erotic gesture would have been to forego the undergarments beneath it, but she was not so brazen, not just yet. Besides, it was  _cold_  in the underground. She kept on her chemise and corset, her drawers and stockings—their outline was clear-cut through the gauzy fabric of the peignoir—and she slid into pale silk slippers.

Next, Christine plucked the pins from her brown tresses, until every soft ringlet tumbled loose onto her back. She dabbed a hint of perfume behind each ear: the surest way, she had learned, to tug salacious murmurs from her husband's lips as they roamed the side of her neck. Last, she reached back to remove the necklace at her throat. It was a pendant he had given her the night before their wedding: a round golden heart, studded with a single blue sapphire. Her hands paused at the clasp as she considered how it might look on bare skin, when all else had been discarded.

With a devilish bite of lip, she left the necklace on and went to summon Erik to bed.

His first order of business was to wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her in for a soft kiss. "That is," he said, between soft sweeps of lip, "my favorite of your dressing gowns." The hand at her midsection trailed down to cup her backside through the gown.

She flashed him a coy smile. "I know."

He removed his dark jacket first, and then his cufflinks. She relished the slivers of sinew and skin made visible by loosened shirt cuffs. His shoes came off next, arranged neatly beside the wardrobe, and it was here that she intercepted him.

"Allow me," she said. With delicate hands, she unhooked the buttons of his gold waistcoat and slid it over his shoulders. She had set it aside and begun tugging his shirttails from his trousers when she paused. Perhaps she should set things in motion now, before she allowed him the satisfaction of disrobing.

He watched her with obvious amusement. "And did you intend to dispatch the remaining garments, my dear?"

Christine cocked her head the way he so often did when making remarks at her expense. "No," she said. "Not presently." She seized him by the waistband and walked him over to the dressing-table, his shirt still half-tucked as she sat him down in the chair.

"What," he began, "is th—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his misshapen mouth. "Last night you had me utterly at your mercy," she said, "and now, dearest, it is my turn." She stepped back, palm outstretched as though placating a dog. "Stay."

His dark irises flared and tracked her as she moved to her bedside drawer. She pulled out a length of fresh rope: a scrap left over from when he had changed out the boat moorings a week before.

With his arms at his sides, she tied him to the chair.

"Ah," he said, angling his head to watch her work. "Turnabout is fair play, I suppose. Well then, my pet, shall I expect the blindfold next?"

She knotted the rope at the back of the chair before rounding it with an impish smile. "No, dearest: no blindfold."

His smirk faltered when she stepped aside to untie her ribboned sash. They locked eyes as she peeled off the dressing gown, and though her cheeks colored, she was determined not to look away. She stared him down even as she draped the peignoir over the dressing table, her arms and shoulders now exposed to the chill of the room.

Though his expression went unchanged at her approach, he swallowed and licked his lips as though parched; expectant tension rippled off his body. A heady satisfaction warmed her belly and gave her courage, and she did not think twice before sliding a leg over his lap to straddle him.

"Christine," he rasped. Where were those powerful lungs now? His eyes were bright and wild, and his every reaction fueled her confidence, making it easier to proceed. With great care, she removed his mask and wig.

His reactions were always the same—the flinch of his neck, a hardened jaw—but they weakened with each unmasking. She was confident that one day, they would disappear altogether. Today was not that day, however, and it was with great care and purpose that she smoothed back his sparse patches of hair, and cupped his face, and met his gaze with unyielding adoration before she claimed his lips in a slow and languorous kiss. Already she felt his growing urgency beneath her, and she smiled into his mouth before pulling away.

She removed his bowtie and unbuttoned his shirt partway, enough to pull it open and ghost her lips along his sharp collarbone. As she moved up the side of his neck, she added the tip of her tongue, and the barest hint of suction. Erik's breaths grew weighted.

"You ought to consider," he said, "whether keeping me bound is in your own best interests." When she pulled away, he was smirking.

"Perhaps you are right," she said sweetly. She slid off his lap and stood, her hand on his shoulder for balance as she peeled off the first of her silk stockings. "I had not considered how I might benefit from binding you elsewhere—that smart mouth, for example."

"You certainly did not protest this mouth before," he said, "not when it was ravishing y—" He was cut off as she threaded the silk between his lips like floss, knotting the ends at the back of his head. His gold-flecked eyes flashed with desirous indignation as she leaned back to study her handiwork. She ran a fingertip around his lips, so plump and distinct in their forced separation, and shivered to recall the hot swells of their malformed right side on her skin.

She would make sure he shivered to recall the same.

Christine lit a candle on the dressing table, and another at her bedside. She turned down the lamp to plunge the room into darkness, save for the small, warm glow of the flickering flames. In the vanity mirror, her skin was dewy, its imperfections smoothed over by shadow and waxy candlelight. Only then did she unlace her corset. When it fell, splayed open, to join the discarded dressing gown, she pulled her white chemise over her head.

She could not look at him now, not directly, but she felt the heat of his gaze as it settled on her bare breasts, and on the heart pendant hanging between them. (The cold, she suspected, worked in her favor here.) She had planned to straddle him again, to tempt him with that soft, exposed flesh at his mouth, but her bravery was already dwindling. She hesitated before stepping forward to tug the trousers down from his hips. She found him rigid and wanting.

Ah, this. This she had grown comfortable with, mapping every part of him with lips and tongue and fingers in the fevered darkness. She moved in closer, palm on his chest for balance, and slid a hand between his legs to cup the straining heat there. His breath hitched as she ran a lone finger up the length of him. She stopped just short of where she knew he was aching for touch, and when she pulled away, his hardened gaze seared into her. She shuddered to think of what he would do if she untied him in that moment.

Goodness, she would have to untie him eventually. What would he do then?

A chill of excitement surged up her spine, and she resolved then and there to flaunt her wickedness. Without breaking eye contact, she sunk to her knees as she parted his thighs. She made sure he saw her moisten her lips, and she bent forward and took him into her mouth.

She could hardly believe her own brazenness, but the unholy moan that sounded from his throat was a reward in itself. One of her hands joined her mouth, working the length of him with an unrelenting grip.

At the sight of him, she considered not stopping. He had abandoned all pretense of watching her and gone slack-jawed, his head lolling back onto the chair edge, eyes fluttering shut. He was still entirely clothed from his thighs down. His white shirt, always so crisp and snug, was mussed and splayed open at the chest. She made quick work of the remaining buttons without breaking her rhythm, aching to watch his abdominal muscles tighten at her every stroke, and she was not disappointed. She set her unoccupied hand on the flat planes of his stomach, and when she attended to him with renewed vigor, she felt every euphoric spasm against her palm. The muffled moans overhead came faster and louder.

No. No, it was too soon, and she did have herself to think about.

Erik groaned in protest when she released him.

"Apologies, dearest," she said as she rose from the floor. She untied the drawstring of her drawers and gave him a sly smile as she slid the garment off, knowing full well he had an ample view of her backside in the mirror.

He met her with heavy, irregular breaths as she straddled him once more. She ground against his pelvic bone, creating a friction that made her toes curl. He growled into the stocking.

Christine paused. It was tempting, then, to remove the gag and make him beg—but she could not bring herself to do it. Instead, she reached back and stroked him for good measure, sliding herself into position.

A hiss of air issued from his misshapen nostrils as she lowered herself onto him. She sank down slowly, until he was seated deep inside her, and for a long moment she sat unmoving, savoring the warmth and fullness of him, of the pleasure that sparked where their two bodies met. She wound her arms around his neck and began to roll her hips.

It felt powerful to set the pace, and she reveled in it. She made no attempt to stifle her quiet mewls, determined that he know just how much she was enjoying herself. She lavished him with kisses as she rocked against him: on his neck, along his jaw, a gentle tug of teeth at the ear. As her pleasure built and all secondary tasks eroded from her mind, she pressed her forehead to his and let it rest there, enduring the hot slide of skin against skin that came with her movements.

Oh, how she burned. She burned and soon she would incinerate completely, and she would take him with her. Without missing a beat, she removed the gag from his mouth and kissed him with more fierceness than she had known she possessed, and she rode him faster and deeper and faster still. He released a strangled groan into her mouth, and then he was kissing back, the force of his lips crushing hers beneath his teeth. He bucked up against her, hard: once, twice, and then she was gone. Every muscle clenched around his body as she quaked against him, and he was quick to follow.

At first, afterward, they could only breathe: the deep, shuddering breaths of physical exertion, of aftershocks of pleasure. She slumped against him, arms draped over his shoulders. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck and kissed her there.

It was some time before she had the clarity of mind, and the stability of leg, to stand and release him. The moment his arms were freed, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. There they lay back to front, his arm around her waist, the cool air turning their skin clammy.

Their breathing had settled by the time he spoke. "Are you awake, dearest?"

She stirred and nodded drowsily.

"Good." He pressed his mouth to the back of her neck. His fingertips grazed the side of her ribcage, following the curve of her hips to trail down her thigh.

It was a tentative touch, the kind meant to excite her, and she sucked in a breath. "What are your intentions, monsieur?"

The lips at her neck came to life, stealing soft, sweet kisses as he murmured into her skin. "Have you any idea how maddening it is not to lay these hands upon you?"

"I think I have some idea, yes."

The hand at her thighs trailed back up her side. "Mm. Well." His lips caught her earlobe, his next words an ominous whisper into the shell of her ear: "I intend to rally soon, and I  _will_  make up for it."

With a delicious shiver, Christine turned over and pressed herself to him.


End file.
